TOUGH LOVE • MICHAEL GRAY FANFIC

7

There are many things that are not in my control. And the way that I reacted to Michael holding out my morphine, barking down my throat was not ok. I get that. I really, really do. Because morphine is typically only for those who suffer from chronic physical pain. The way I got a hold of it was illegally stealing it from the medicine cabinet at work. I shouldn't even be on a drug, let alone taking it on a nightly basis.

I think about reaching for the gun, playing fire with fire and asking him what he's doing with a damn pistol in his coat pocket. But I take his slander, knowing it's coming from a good place.

"What the hell, June?! This can kill you!"

"I know." I use it in moderation.

I almost end up giving him a heart attack. "No, you don't know. If you did, you wouldn't be fucking doing it."

I slouch in my chair. "Don't do that. Don't try to scold me."

"You know how many people overdose on morphine?" He's still hovering over me.

"I work at a hospital. I think I have an idea, Michael."

He scoffs. "What else are you taking? Snow?"

Perplexed, I narrow my gaze at him. "What's snow?" Sounds pretty cool.

"Cocaine. June." He's frustrated, but I can't understand why.

Hah! "No, what the fuck!" I nearly break into giggles. Snow is cocaine. Makes sense, consider the white powder does resemble snow, I guess.

"You could get addicted to this shit."

"It's just for sleep Michael." I sigh, "I'm not addicted."

"But you're dependant on it, June." He shakes the bottle, it fits into his palm. He rattles it, liquid and air slosh in the glass bottle. "It's almost empty. Did it come full?"

Yes. "Nooooo."

"You're lying."

Damn it. "So what if I'm lying." I shrug. "I don't want to fight, Michael." I push myself to stand and make my way to the kitchen. I look over at the stove to see dinner waiting for me, Kurt must've prepared something while I was away.

"Neither do I. But I also don't want you taking taking this shit. I care about, you know. About you."

I turn to Michael. I got to feed him too, don't I?

"You're not hungry, are you?"

He looks over into the pot and decides he is. "I am."

Argh.

Pulling out the loaf of bread, I hand it to him and light up the stove. "Slice that up for me please."

The thing creaks the way it usually does, it's a bit embarrassing, but I'm sure Michael knows the struggle of being broke.

I put my hand on my hip, my other hand over the counter to steady myself out. Michael stands beside me, searching the cabinets for a knife. And when he finds one, he awkwardly cuts the bread. I turn to him hearing the knife scrape the counter. "Michael." I raise an eyebrow at him. Has he gone blind?

"I don't really cook." He chuckles, "Sorry."

Of course not. "You just," I try not to giggle. "You just need to cut through gently. Don't put too much pressure." It's bread for goodness sake.

As if he's preforming brain surgery, Michael really takes his time and focus on cutting the bread. "Do you ever think about Hughes?" He sticks his tongue out, concentrating.